


Invictus

by fauxpromises



Category: Final Fantasy IX
Genre: Character Study, Dragons, Gen, Magic, Mentions of Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 05:24:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15901752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fauxpromises/pseuds/fauxpromises
Summary: For the very first time in his short existence, Kuja smiled.He had destroyed something.





	Invictus

**Author's Note:**

> _invictus_  
>  Latin adjective, "unconquered, unsubdued, invincible."

Magic, he had come to learn, was a delicate act of balance.

First came the visualization. He would picture the tree engulfed in flames, crystalline branches burning orange and gold against the unchanging blue of the sky. That, perhaps, was the easy part of the task. The challenge lay in the focused siphoning of the energy that surrounded him—flowing most acutely where life could be found, or in weak flickers where it once had been.

Both must be done in perfect synchronization with very little room for error. And so, it had taken the Genome no less than a full month from his conception to master the most basic of black magics: Fire. An unimpressive foray into the art, though the months that followed had seen swifter success with other elemental techniques.

It was this most recent endeavor, then, that was proving to be a much more formidable challenge.

Standing in the empty clearing, a short walk from Pandemonium, Kuja stared hatefully at the tree before him. No more than twenty paces away—it may as well have been miles when one considered the complexities involved in channeling magic at a distance. The uppermost branches smoldered with a nascent flame, but it was a far cry from the Fira he had been attempting for the past three days.

A sigh escaped him as he slowly lowered his arm. Master Garland was already growing impatient with his progress; he had told his young creation in no uncertain terms that he expected his departure to the blue planet before the passing of five years. Such a painfully brief time, as it were, to master his craft.

Kuja knew well that it was imperative for his purpose that he become a proficient mage—this fact had been imbued in him as an unequivocal command. Magic had been revered by the old Terrans as the foundation upon which their society had been built, key to subduing their enemies and powering the machinery that upheld their civilization. A single Ultima could fell an entire army or lay waste to a city.

But he was not a true Terran, and his fingertips would give forth no more than a tenuous flame, already dimming to barely an ember. Those same lithe fingers dragged through thick locks matted with sweat, a combination of frustration and an ever-building hatred for the being that ruled his existence.

He could _not_ return today without a firm mastery of  Fira. This he knew without any doubt. His hatred alone could not defend him from his master’s wrath, something he had learned the first time he dared to question Garland's instructions. The lingering memory of corrective measures, in the form of lengthy confinement to the solitude of Pandemonium's dark belly, served as a painful reminder of the fact that insubordination would not be tolerated.

Angel of Death or not, it had been made perfectly clear that he was expendable. He was a slightly more fanciful doll, certainly; a wonderful abomination in all ways, possessed of an ethereal beauty that made him ideal for his mission of beguiling the enemy and sowing discord. But for one such as Garland, who had been refining the act of creation for millennia—he placed the burden on his latest prototype to prove that he could be useful.

Kuja had become distinctly aware, as the days passed, that he resented nothing more than being underestimated in such a way.

He ignored the lessons of his tutoring as he raised his arm this time, concentrating his anger into the visualization of the tree. The proper technique was to reach a state of internal equilibrium before following the thought of action with the exertion of will upon his surroundings, but the cold burning of hatred now swelled within him instead. The feeling peaked as he pictured his loathsome creator in place of the tree, erupting into an inferno of—

A wail tore sharply through the air as he released the spell, fist clenching as the tree shattered from within. The Genome staggered backward, grunting, as shrapnel from the crystal structure rained down upon him. One blue eye opened to behold the sight of the ruined tree, a roiling flame dancing on the soil where it once stood.

The warmth in his hand cooled as he examined it, flexing his fingers. He looked back up at the charred patch of ground. That— _he_ had done that!

For the very first time in his short existence, Kuja smiled.

_He had destroyed something._

The feeling wasn’t quite the same as that of the weak flames he had so recently struggled to send forth. This act was total and absolute. In a small, pitiful life that he held no control over, this show of pure power demonstrated a potential that he had not dared to expect from himself.

An overwhelming instinct to preserve himself—to convince his coldly indifferent master of his worth—had governed his actions for the duration of his short life. The possibility of defiance had not asserted itself; there was simply his present state of obedient servitude, or the fathomless terror of _non-existence_ that was the fate of a failed experiment.

Magic had been presented to him early on as a simple tool that he must master to fulfill his mission, and he had appropriately viewed it as yet another shackle that bound him to his fixed purpose. But the brief feeling of invincibility that his success had given to him in that moment rapidly began to twist into an insatiable desire for _more_.

He knew at once, too, that he desired this not for his master or for his ordained purpose, or even out of want to protect his own life. Rather, it was the whispered promise of cutting the strings that held him in place.

This mutinous thought was at once a beautiful and terrifying thing, not unlike the ashen face he saw in the reflections of Terra's luminous pools.

Rising to his feet at last, his tail brushed uncomfortably against the sharp splinters left behind by his destruction. He glanced down to note with disdain that the pale fur was streaked with blood. His arms were in a similar state, having taken the brunt of the explosion as he had tried to shield himself from it.

He had little opportunity to ponder this further, however, as another shriek erupted from his left. Kuja cut his gaze over in the direction from which it had come— _that_ was the sound that had broken his concentration mere moments ago. He wanted to be irritated by this fact, but the truth of the matter was that he had succeeded in something that he had previously been failing miserably at, and he was not inclined to argue with results.

His steps led him toward the sound, curiosity replacing the exhilaration that his victory had left him with. He almost hoped it was one of the many wild beasts that he had so recently regarded with trepidation, limiting his ability to wander very far from the accursed fortress that was both his home and his prison. His fingers twitched with excitement as he pushed through the thick flora that barred his view eastward.

But no large beast awaited him as he looked out to the waterscape beyond. Instead, his eyes fell on the curled shape of something small and silvery at the water’s edge. A group of large black avians had descended on the creature, whose wails had waned to a pathetic whimper as more of the flying beasts joined the frenzy. Kuja recognized the birds as a species of carrion feeders, a fact that he had become acquainted with when he’d been given the task of disposing of a Genome whose body had ceased to function.

Suppressing a shudder, he turned his mind to the issue at hand. The opportunity to test his new trick had presented itself, and a smirk slowly crept into his features as he concentrated the energy into his fingertips. The reminder of the unpleasant memory became a conduit, and with ease that he had longed for since the first time he uttered an incantation, a plume of fire erupted in the direction of the flock.

The sound of the distressed creature was instantly drowned out by deafening screams. Three of the avians lay motionless on the ground as their remaining kin took flight.

The mage laughed softly this time at the sight of what he had wrought, the thrill heightened by the fact that he had managed to kill a few of them. Perhaps it was not too late after all to claim the right to his title, even if he had only served as a lord of death to a flock of vermin thus far.

For a moment Kuja had every intention of making his way back to Pandemonium to attend to his wounds and achingly empty stomach—but the stirrings of movement beside the water caught his attention.

His smirk turned to a frown, haughty silver brows coming together in thought. He had assumed the unfortunate prey to be dead by this time. Parting the shimmering stalks of grass before him, he crept closer to the prone form of the creature he had unintentionally protected.

When it became clear that whatever it was no longer possessed the ability to attack him, Kuja came to stand over it. Long red gashes marked the body of what he could identify from his bestiary tomes as a feywyrm. A species of dragon that grew to a considerable size, though they were known to have a very slow growth cycle. Few adults existed at a given time due to the long adolescence that rendered them as vulnerable as the creature before him.

Said creature thrashed as he knelt down beside it. His thoughts flitted for a moment toward what exactly to _do_ about this, outside of the morbid curiosity that had already drawn him close. He had no vested interest in providing it with any aid, and its injuries were grave. Viscera and bone were visible through some of its wounds, and he had no doubt that death was not far off for the beast.

Practically speaking, it would be merciful to end the wyrm’s suffering. But another voice—very different from the one that had silently exalted in the destruction of the tree and avians—cried out with an unnamable sense of dread at the sight of life being slowly robbed from a being. It was the same dread he had experienced as he looked upon the rigid body of the Genome he had left to molder in the glassy forest a mere week ago.

He pictured the life ebbing away from his own body only briefly before he called his attention back to reality. The possibility of a sudden death had always been a looming fear for him, as a consequence of failure, but never once had he considered the slow suffering that he saw in the feral eyes of this creature. It left him with a painful knot in his chest, unbidden but for his own treacherous imagination.

Shaking his head, he tried to dispel the thought. Perhaps he could take advantage of the situation in another way; restorative magic had been the first he acquired, a combat necessity for any mage, and he had relatively few opportunities to practice it. Such a task was beneath him, and yet…

He sighed, disgusted with himself. He placed a hand on the creature’s bloodied flank.

The wyrm lacked the strength to evade his touch, but it struggled weakly and chuffed a warning. Its ruby eyes regarded him with hostility even in its dying state.

“Be still,” Kuja hissed sharply, unamused. He focused his gaze on the dragon’s gleaming hide in concentration, visualizing the mending of its flesh. A warm energy coalesced in his fingertips as he willed arteries and tendons back together, and gradually the creature’s labored breathing began to ease. He watched with fascination as the bloody gouges gave way to the smooth silver of scales, and within a few moments the beast was whole again.

The wyrm had also become quite aware of its revitalized state. Its muscles tensed as it attempted to abruptly stand, and the mage quickly assumed a defensive position. Fire rose to his palms as he took a step backward, but the beast leapt into flight before he could take action. It glided over him to the opposite bank of the stream, disappearing into the shining brush.

Kuja let his arm drop to his side, a shaky breath leaving him. He wiped his bloody hands on the pure white of his robe and found that he was utterly exhausted. With the adrenaline of the situation starting to fade, the aching of the cuts that littered his body began to trouble him once more.

It was perhaps foolish to expend his mana on the animal, he chastised himself. Given the injuries he had sustained, the energy would have been better spent on healing himself. He had made remarkable progress on his magics today, but the thought of pleasing his master did little to lighten the burden that pain and fatigue had wrought on his body.

The pain of dread in his stomach, too, had stubbornly remained.

He resolved to care for the injuries he could see for the time being, his tail twitching anxiously at the burgeoning turmoil that had begun to brew. He turned to go, thoroughly finished with what this place had brought on him for the day, but the light glanced off an object that rested beside the water.

Clean and shining beside the pool of blood, a single silver flight feather caught his eye. Beautiful things were few and far between in the dying world of Terra, and so he couldn’t help thinking that the iridescent plume, with its tinges of brilliant ultramarine, would make for a fetching decoration. He plucked the feather from the ground, one corner of his lips pulling up in almost childlike delight.

He would find a use for it. Of that much he was certain.


End file.
